


Friendly Advice

by Cephy



Category: Final Fantasy VII
Genre: Community: no_true_pair, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-06-03
Updated: 2008-06-03
Packaged: 2017-10-06 05:55:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/50408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cephy/pseuds/Cephy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's never a good day when he finds a Turk in his garage.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Friendly Advice

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the prompt: "Cid shares something meaningful (a meal? a secret? ...bodily fluids?) with Reno".

Cid figures it's never a good day when he finds a Turk in his garage-- at best, it means they're taking one of the choppers out, and someone's gonna die somewhere; at worst, they've found out about the occasional joyrides the boys take and are there to settle someone's grudge. _When you see suits instead of coveralls,_ he always tells his crew, _best bet is to keep your head down and your eyes on your work, and let me handle 'em._

Still. Cid's never seen a Turk quite like the one he found skulking in the corner just after shift started, looking like he was _trying_ to be cool and casual but mostly looking like he didn't want anyone to notice him-- not fucking likely, given the state of the little punk's hair. Odd behaviour for a Turk, really, but Cid didn't figure he'd had enough tea yet to deal with him-- shit, there was never enough tea to deal with Turks, even baby ones-- so he went to work anyway. And waited.

Sure enough, when no one challenged him the kid sort of drifted out onto the floor, hands in pockets, oozing a _nothing-to-see-here_ attitude strong enough to smell. When he drifted in close enough, Cid shifted his toothpick-- not a cigarette, not so close to the fuel, more's the pity-- to the corner of his mouth and said, "hand me that three-quarters, would you?"

The kid froze, just went completely stone-still there in the middle of the floor like a sewer rat facing down a hell house, though he did get a hold of himself quick enough that Cid thought he maybe wasn't a total loss.

"The fuck you say?"

"The wrench," Cid growled, turning his shoulders while leaving his hands where they were-- hell to get the wires apart properly, he wasn't about to let go now-- "you're practically standing on it, so give it here."

For a moment it looked like the kid was gonna say no, just to be tough about it, but Cid fixed him with an eyebrow and chewed the toothpick a little harder, and the kid slowly deflated. Reached down without a word and picked up the nearest wrench.

"Not that one," Cid said, exasperated. "Look, on the handle-- check the size, and give me the three-quarters. Hurry up, would ya, I can't hold this all day."

The kid looked torn again, just for a second, then he gave a sniff and ever-so-casually leaned down to peer at the wrenches. Cid had to turn to his wiring again, twist his lips to keep from laughing.

As the morning went on, the kid kept drifting around, slowly circling Cid's station-- Cid could see the rest of the crew eyeing him, wondering, but the more Cid watched the more obvious it was that the kid wasn't there on any kind of business. For one thing, his eyes kept swinging back to the far end of the hangar, where the sleek black ShinRa warbirds sat, and the round-bellied courier choppers-- it was pathetically easy to interpret the way the kid's teeth chewed at his lip when he looked at them. Equally easy to see that he was desperately trying not to show he was impressed by any of it, and he'd really better learn to get a hold on that quick if he didn't want the Turks to eat him alive.

Lunch rolled around with the blow of a whistle, and Cid stood up wiping his hands. He waved the kid over, kind of gratified when he actually came. "Look," he started, "you got the right idea-- you want something, in this place, you gotta take steps for yourself. But if you really wanna fly one of those," he continued bluntly, tipping his chin towards the other end of the garage, "you're not gonna make it happen standing around watchin' a bunch of grease monkeys do their thing."

"I don't--" the kid started, looking defensive.

"Shaddup. Look. Get yourself out to a flight school and pay for some lessons-- yeah, _pay_ for them, out of your own damned pocket." He glared a bit when it looked like the kid would argue the point. "Kid, the only thing that fancy suit's gonna get you is trouble if you start throwing it around before you've got the firepower or the balls to back it up. So until you start to look a little more dangerous than the average ten-year-old, you use your wallet instead of your mouth and you _pay_ for the damned lessons. And then, when whoever it is that assigns you baby Turks your placements comes around, you can say you've got real field experience and get a leg up on the game. Get it?"

He waited for the kid to nod, a bit wide-eyed and really looking far too young for that suit, before he turned and heading for his locker. "Good. Now get the fuck out of my garage."


End file.
